


The Dream

by AllThatWeSeeOrSeem



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard's POV, Barduil - Freeform, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hair Kink, M/F, Magical Thranduil, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem/pseuds/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three of them are in one big bed, and he knows by it's impossibility that it is a dream, but he wouldn't want to be woken now for anything in all the world. Set post BOTFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit hesitant to post this, not only because it's the first M rated thing I've written (I'm iffy on the rating, but I didn't think it was porn-y enough for an Explicit rating) but also because I know this scenario has been written a hundred times before in a dozen different fandoms. If this is too similar to another work, it certainly isn't intentional at all, so just let me know and I'll take this down. Also please let me know if I should tag anything else.

The three of them are in one big bed, and he knows by it's impossibility that it is a dream, but he wouldn't want to be woken now for anything in all the world. 

Thranduil reaches for him, long fingers as strong as forged iron but here, now, they are gentled by desire. He reaches for his wife in turn, his mind recalling the softness of her hair, the smoothness of her skin, which he had thought time had permanently dulled in his memory.

In his dream he is torn, as he is in the waking world now that he has met the great elven king. Loyalty for his wife wars with his desire to see the elven king's façade crack and shatter. And underneath? Bard knew the pain of loss, he recognized it in another as sure as he recognized it in his own reflection staring back at him from the surface of the lake.

The feel of Thranduil's hands on his skin startles him at first, but they're warm and soft, running up and down his back and it's soothing, somehow, though the sight of his wife smiling up at him brings tears to his eyes and a tightness to his chest. 

He pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair and breathes deep. Yes, it is her, there is no mistaking it. Love and lust and want rush through him, make him involuntarily push his hips up against her. She kisses him. 

Behind him Thranduil shifts closer, and Bard can feel him against the back of his thighs. The elf king is tall, and, it would seem, proportional, and though his feet stretch past Bard's on the bed he still must bend forward to press open-mouthed kisses to Bard's shoulder. Thranduil's arm is around his waist now, and his wife's has crept up around his neck, and Bard feels warm and wanted and loved.

He can feel morning and the dawning sun creeping into his subconscious. Soon the children will wake. They will demand breakfast. 

Bard shuts his eyes tight and pulls his wife closer. In response she slides one leg up and around his hip, and then before he can help himself, he's sliding into her. He chokes on a sob and shudders. 

Behind him Thranduil is making small movements with his hips, sliding up and down the crease between Bard's thighs. He's waiting, ancient and patient and understanding. Bard doesn't see it, his eyes tightly shut, but he senses when Thranduil and his wife share a look over his shoulder. 

He moves, slowly, pulling himself from his wife's warm, welcoming body and then back in again. One, twice, and then he falters, the truth of the situation catching up with him. Thranduil's palm is flattened against his chest, his wife's fingers are smoothing the tendrils of dampened dark hair away from his forehead, but he knows that neither of them are there. Bard himself is not truly there. 

“Reality is a deceptive thing, a malleable thing”, Thranduil's voice is low in his ear, “with little encouragement it can be twisted, changed to suit. Does this suit you, Bowman?”

Bard shudders again and nods, buries himself once again in his long-dead wife who is, at this very moment, so very much alive in his arms. His face is streaked with tears but then suddenly Thranduil is there, leaning over him to kiss the wetness from his cheeks. His long pale hair shifts over Bard's skin like satin. Bard wraps it around his hand only to find it strong as a thick rope. He turns his head farther and tugs, bringing Thranduil's lips to his own. 

It is enough. Bard comes with a sharp exhale of breath that sounds more like a gasp of pain, but then Thranduil's lips are back on his, and his wife is clenching around him and sighing little panting breaths against his chest, and for just one moment Bard forgets the truth.

“It is time to awaken, Bowman”, Thranduil says against his lips.

And Bard does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this isn't how this story was supposed to go at all! It started out as a short one-shot three-some exploration, but the characters have been talking to each other in my head all day, until I finally had to write it down just to get some peace. So, here we are...

Bard knows he is dreaming, and he is no more prepared for it this time than he was the last. He recognises the bed, because it is not his own, and is known to him only from that first dream. Its origin is a mystery, and the room beyond the bed curtains is hazy and indistinct. He tries to focus on it, but it makes his eyes water and his head pound, as though he is not meant to be looking at it at all.

He is laying on his side, and at first he is confused. His wife, who had been there in his arms before, is absent. He feels the loss keenly. That she would be there again was the first thought to enter his mind when he found himself in that bed again. 

It is not the same dream.

Behind him, there is movement among the blankets. Bard does not want to turn his head and look, but he does not have to in order to know who it is.

Thranduil.

“You’ll forgive me if it’s just the two of us this time,” the elf murmurs, “It takes far too much effort to conjure the dead.”

Bard wants to ask why. He wants to ask how. Most of all, he wants to ask if Thranduil is actually in his dream, or if the elf king is simply something created into being by his unconscious mind. 

He does not ask. 

Bard rolls over, and comes face to face with the elf. They are so close their noses almost touch, and Bard draws back hastily. Thranduil merely looks amused. 

There is no warning when the elf takes Bard into his arms. His grasp is vicious but careful, as though Bard were ephemeral and may melt away in too strong an embrace.

Thranduil buries his nose in Bard’s dark hair, just as Bard had done with his wife in their last shared dream. Bard frowns. He knows where that particular impulse originates from. He knows in such an action Thranduil seeks assurance, reassurance that Bard is truly there.

“What is your aim in this?”

“Nothing more than the fact that I find myself drawn to you. We are kindred spirits.”

“We are nothing alike,” Bard counters.

“We are, in the ways which matter most.” Thranduil affirms. “You love your children, as I love my son. You love your wife as I love mine, though neither are with us now. You are lonely, just as I-”.

And here Thranduil cuts himself off in favour of kissing Bard full on the mouth. 

To Bard the kiss feels desperate and anxious but, he has to admit, it stirs something in him just as it had the last time Thranduil kissed him in his dreams.

After a long moment the elf king’s lips turn gentle against his own and the kiss slows. Bard pulls away to gasp in a few rough breaths but finds his companion is unwilling to be parted from him. Lips soft as new leaves trail over his scant beard and down the column of his throat, stopping briefly over the spot where his pulse is fluttering wildly beneath the surface of his skin. 

Bard finds he is on his back and Thranduil hovers over him. He tries, at first in vain, to untangle his hand which had involuntarily wrapped itself up in the elf king’s silver hair.

“You seem to favour my hair.” 

“My wife had hair long like yours,” Bard murmurs before he realizes he has spoken, “though dark. She would brush it out before bed each night, and then I would wrap it up in my fist while we-”

Thranduil laughes at this admission and subsequent embarrassment, stroking a finger down the Bowman’s reddened cheek.

“Bring my wife back.”

“Not this time, Bowman. I have not the strength for it, not again, not so soon. This time you are mine alone.”

“It does not sit easy on my conscience, to be here with you without her present, even if it is only a dream.”

“You are so loyal still, but there is no need to be loyal to the dead. I am patient, Bowman, I will wait for you if I must.”

Thrandul’s hand rests gently at Bard’s throat. His thumb strokes back and forth along Bard’s jawline, rasping softly through the hair which grew there. The elf’s own face was, of course, smooth and bare. His eyes, deep as the pools in an ancient forest, watch Bard steadily. 

In the end it’s the ceaseless throbbing between his legs which prompts him into action. Bard rises and forces the elf king over until his back hits the bed and their positions are reversed. He finds a place for himself between strong elven thighs, which part for him invitingly and rise to frame his hips. 

“Now you have the advantage, Bowman. What will you do with it?”

Bard knows it to be only a mockery of a challenge. 

The elf king is far from wanton, but the tiny movements he makes against him brings a low moan from between Bard’s lips. Thranduil is firm and hard beneath him, his bare chest is smooth and warm and his hands grasp at Bard’s forearms, urging him on.

Bard cannot remember if they were both naked at the beginning of the dream, but, if they were not, they certainly are now. He rocks his hips against the elf, wanting something he does not know how to name.

“You move slowly for one whose years are so numbered.” Thranduil objects suddenly. 

And then Bard is again on his back. He huffs in protest, but his hand has found its way back into the elf king’s tresses, and he lets it remain there. 

Thranduil knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. His hands are at Bard’s waist now, smoothing flat-palmed up towards his ribs and down again, up and down, pausing on every stroke upwards to brush over his nipples, until Bard’s chest is heaving and he’s close to simply working a hand down between their bodies and finishing himself off. 

Then, Thranduil stops. Bard opens his mouth to protest but his words are swallowed up by one last bruising kiss.

“The sun rises.” Thranduil says.

And then Bard finds that he is awake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sure what this story is any more. I'm just along for the ride, we'll see where it goes! There will be at least one more chapter after this one, I know because it's writing itself right now. Big thanks to everyone who has left kudos!
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THAT THE RATING HAS CHANGED TO EXPLICIT! (Though I have a feeling that on this site that's good news)

There is a warm body lying atop his own. 

It has been exactly four weeks and two days since the last time Bard had found himself in such a dream. In that time, his dreams have instead been consumed by worries for Dale and the people formerly of Laketown, worries for his children who had seen too much fighting and bloodshed, and memories of dragon fire and smoke and heat. 

This dream is quiet, and peaceful, and the warm weight pressing down on him is more than welcome. For a long moment, Bard refuses to open his eyes.

He knows who it is pressed against him. He is as familiar with his wife’s body as he is his own, perhaps more so, even after so long without her. He can feel her bare breasts pressed against his naked chest, her legs tangled with his own. He wants desperately to open his eyes and drink in the sight of her, but how can he let her go again when the dream is over, how can he give her up after having her with him once again?

He reaches out for her blindly and his hands find her shoulders. He runs them down her sides to her waist, over the mounds of her rear. She gasps and his hands grasp at her, kneading once before pressing her more firmly against him.

Her hands are stroking his chest and he is so painfully aroused he could weep. 

It is not the presence of his wife, though, but rather the lack of another presence in the bed which finally prompts him to open his eyes. 

The bed, with its sheets finer than any Bard has ever lain on in the waking world, is by now familiar, but he and the vision of his wife are the only ones in it.

He peers out into the room, squinting in an effort to combat the fuzziness, the indistinct otherness which makes his eyes ache to look at. 

The elf king stands unmoving in the shadows. 

At first Bard’s gaze nearly passes him over, but the elf’s hair catches the light and shimmers gently in the otherwise dim room. But there is something different, something is wrong.

“Your face…what has happened?”

“That is of no concern of yours.” Thranduil’s voice is harsh.

Bard’s wife is drawing him back to her, her small hands soft against his body, but he is still troubled.

“Come out of the shadows.”

“Not this time, Bowman.”

His wife is straddling his hips, her fingers combing through the trail of course dark hair below his navel. He feels the skin of his abdomen twitch reflexively against the touch. 

With a final glance at the elven king standing tall and unmoving in the shadows, Bard allows his wife to draw him back to her. 

He moves his hands up her thighs to settle on her hips, urging her to move into position above him before guiding himself inside her. Bard gasps at the sensation, giving a small, aborted thrust of his hips before forcing himself still. 

Bard remains motionless, his fingers clenching desperately into the flesh of his wife’s thighs, until she begins rocking back and forth against him. He thrusts up into her sharply, then, his head thrown back against the soft feather pillows. 

His breath breaks on a sharp cry, and he curls his toes into the bedding and raises his knees to get better leverage. His wife leans back against his thighs, changing the angle, and it isn’t long before he’s coming undone beneath her. 

He loses himself for a moment, and when he comes back to himself he rolls them over and buries his face against her shoulder. Bard can feel himself softening within her, and though he pushes his hips forward frantically he nevertheless slips free from the warmth of her body. 

She sooths and shushes him, petting through is hair and down his back. His breathing is still harsh but hers is even. He knows she has not found her pleasure. 

Bard shifts above her and moves one hand into position between her legs. She arches up into him, rolls her hips up against his fingers and then down towards the bed. He gluts himself on the sight of her; she is beautiful like this.

Her dark hair spills out across the pillow and down over her breasts. He pushes it aside so he can take one rosy nipple into his mouth and roll it around with his tongue. He remembers the nights he had with her, wishes there had been more. 

When she finds her release her soft cry comes in tandem with a sharp gasp from the elven king in the shadows, and Bard senses rather than sees him falter and collapse.

Bard is thrown out of the dream without warning to find he has made a mess of his night clothes.

It is many months until he dreams of Thranduil again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my "one more chapter" has turned into "at least one more after this". Huge thanks to everyone who has read this and those who have left kudos. Enjoy!

Bard feels the bed beneath him before he sees it. It seems to materialize around him, though beyond the bed is darkness. The room is gone. 

He is lying in Thranduil’s arms facing the elf king. Their legs are tangled together, and Thranduil’s arms are wrapped around Bard’s waist, holding the man tightly to him. 

Bard can feel where they are pressed together that the elf is not aroused, but there is a passion in the embrace, regardless, and Bard wonders at the intensity of it. 

“I was not fully recovered; I had only the power to maintain one illusion at a time.” Thranduil says quietly, taking hold of Bard’s hand which Bard had not realized had been reaching for the elf king’s face, "but consider it a gift."

“Were you injured?”

“It is an old injury. You are not the only one who has battled dragons and lived.”

He wants to ask more, but Thranduil is clearly done talking. His lips are insistent against Bard’s own, hands wandering over the planes of his body. 

Bard pulls away after a time, and the elf king lets him go. 

“And are you now recovered?” 

“Not entirely,” comes the reply, “but it has been too long, and…”

“And?” Bard prompts.

“And I wanted you.”

The confession is so simple, so gentle, that Bard doesn’t think to question it. He allows the elf king to press him back into the bed, spreading his legs until there is room enough for Thranduil to ease himself down between them. 

The elf is heavy and solid above him, and this time, Bard realizes suddenly, dawn will not break to stop them. 

If uncertainty causes him to stiffen beneath the elf, it is involuntary, and yet no move he makes, it seems, goes unnoticed.

“Have you no experience in this?” Thranduil asks, but his tone is merely curious.

Bard can only shake his head mutely. He has heard whispers, of course, spoken among certain men, but he himself had had a wife and so paid little attention. He knows of such things, knows that it is not an uncommon way for soldiers on the battlefield to celebrate their victories or console their defeats, but what goes on in private tents usually remains there. 

He watches, unsure, as Thranduil lifts one of the pillows from the bed. He motions for Bard to lift his hips and then places the pillow beneath him.

Thranduil’s next kiss is gentle. He licks his way into Bard’s mouth and Bard opens eagerly for him, bringing his hands up to frame the flawless face above him.

When the kiss breaks, a jar of salve has appeared in the elf’s hand. Bard shivers, though he is not cold. In fact, he feels overly warm. He sees Thanduil hesitate at the movement, so he takes the jar carefully from his hands and uncorks it.

The smell is not altogether pleasant, but the product itself is effective as Thranduil dips his middle and forefingers into the jar and then moves them down between Bard’s legs. 

Bard starts. The touch is intimate, far more so than any he has experienced before. 

By the time Thranduil removes his hand and moves into place over him, Bard is trembling. It is doubt and yearning, desire and fear. There is no turning back. Bard does not want to turn back, he hopes only that the elf king does not take in the state of him and change his mind. 

But no. Thranduil is sliding into him. Not effortlessly, but it is motion forward none the less. 

The sensation makes Bard shudder anew and grasp desperately at the elf’s shoulders, feeling the muscle shift and move beneath his rough palms. 

The elf’s hips settle against his own, finally, finally, and Bard lets out the breath that has caught itself in his throat. Thranduil’s own breath is unsteady in his ear. 

“Well, now, Bowman.” Thranduil hums, lifting his head to peer down at the man.

His face is close to his own, so that all Bard can see is the elf king, all he knows is the lust that has been awoken within him and the hot stretch of the elf inside him. Bard clenches around him tentatively, experimentally, and is rewarded with a sharp gasp and a sharper thrust of the elf’s hips. 

Thranduil is moving within him, then, harsh and fierce, shoving Bard up the bed with each thrust until his head is in danger of hitting the carved wooden headboard. 

When Bard comes it is with a strangled shout, and it is not long afterwards that Thranduil is muffling a groan in the man’s shoulder before stilling inside him. But he does not pull away.

Bard awakens slowly. He is not sure where the line between dream and reality blurs and fades, he does not know when Thraduil leaves him but there is no denying he is again in his own bed and he can hear the chatter of his children nearby. He stretches, and is at first confused and amazed that there is no soreness in his body. 

But then, of course, it had only been a dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an Epilogue to come and then this whole thing is finally done. I'm not too sure how to get it to show up as a completed work, having never written a multi-chapter story before, but I'll figure it out. This has been lots of fun. Thanks again to everyone who has read and left kudos!

When Bard blinks open his eyes in the world of dreams, it is to the sight of the side of Thranduil’s face a little ways from him on the bed. The elf lays on his back, his eyes unfocused, not in sleep, but as one who is deep in thought.

“I received word today that my son, who dwells now among the Dunedain, was injured in a skirmish with a pack of orcs.”

The tone is so casual, the words spoken so low, that at first Bard does not grasp their meaning or even that they are spoken to him.

“Is he well?”

“It is a small hurt, he will heal.”

“But you wish he would return to you.”

“He has lived three thousand years, Bowman, but he is still my child.”

Bard has no time to think on these words, as the elf is suddenly upon him, lining their naked bodies up from head to toe – or at least head to mid-calf – and wrapping his long hands around either side of Bard’s face to hold him in place while he kisses him fiercely. 

Bard is so wrapped up in the kiss that at first he does not realize there are suddenly two pairs of hands on his body, but with that realization a second pair of lips begins to make their way in little kisses across his shoulder. 

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, “are you able-?”

“Hush. Yes.”

Bard meekly complies with Thranduil’s efforts to turn him around on the bed to face his wife. 

As always, the sight of her takes his breath away. For a moment the elf behind him is nearly forgotten, as he once again buries himself in her arms and feels his love and need for her utterly consume him. 

It is his wife who finally grasps him and guides him inside her. 

He is rocking gently into her when he feels Thranduil press himself down the length of his back. His touch is cautious, but Bard holds no reservations. He presses back against the elf king and feels the soft exhale against his shoulder. 

He distracts himself with his wife’s kisses while Thranduil makes use of the salve. 

When the three of them are finally joined, Bard knows peace. He thrusts experimentally up into his wife and then down onto the elf king, who returns the thrust with a deep moan. At first their movements are erratic, experimental, as they go about figuring out method and rhythm. It is Thranduil’s direction which finally has them moving together, his hands expertly guiding Bard’s hips where they are cradled between his wife’s and the elf’s own. 

Bard loses track of time. A minute may pass, an hour, it no longer matters. When he is old and fading he will remember this dream, and the warmth of its memory will heat his frail bones. 

His release comes upon him without warning. It rolls over him in waves and finally dies down to leave him trembling, and each breath he takes catches in the back of his throat. 

Bard reaches down to where he is softening inside his wife and presses the heel of his hand against her. Behind him, Thranduil’s rhythm falters before his pace quickens once again. 

His wife and Thranduil seem to come at the same time, and the dual sensations of their pleasure around and inside Bard nearly sends him over the edge once more. 

In the next moment the image of his wife shudders and fades away, leaving Bard’s arms achingly empty. Thranduil pulls himself from Bard, almost harshly, and falls back on the bed. Bard looks over his shoulder to the elf king to find his eyes closed, his jaw slack, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. 

“You have overtaxed yourself again.”

Thranduil is silent for a heartbeat, two, and then his eyes blink open and he turns towards him.

“I must confess to you.” He says slowly, “it is not only that I overburden my power when I conjure your wife, but that, because of the way I form the illusion, I can feel everything which she would feel.”

“Every-” Bard feels the cold chill of realization sweep through him, “Everything I do with my wife, here, I do to you as well. When I pleasure her, I pleasure you. When she comes, you come.”

Thranduil turns from him again and is silent, and Bard knows the truth of it. 

“It matters not.” Bard says, rolling over onto his back as well, and Thranduil looks at him sharply, “Truly. You have given me a great gift, it matters not how it is done.”

Thranduil rolls to cover the man’s body with his own, and Bard welcomes him. The elf nips at his bottom lip before deepening the kiss, rocking his hips against Bard’s own even though they are both spent.

“Do you still believe me to be nothing more than a phantom in your dreams?” Thranduil pulls away eventually to ask.

“What else could you be?”

“Then I will have to come to you in the waking world. Winter draws near, what is it your people need most?”

“Blankets.” Bard answers, “foodstuffs they can preserve and eat during the winter. Seeds and root vegetables to plant come spring.”

“Then you shall have what I can spare from my own people. Look for me in a months’ time, Bowman, and then perhaps we may make love in your bed instead of the illusion of mine.”


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this isn't OOC. It felt different than the rest of the story when I was writing it, but I had to wrap the whole thing up somehow. Mostly I think it's because the characters abandoned this plotline, so I had to write this on my own (which never goes well). Bard is gone, but Thranduil is still muttering away to himself in my head, so if interested look for more stories with him in the next week or two. Thanks as always for reading!

Bard isn’t looking for it but, three and a half weeks after his last dream, there is a clamour at the gates of Dale and the cry goes up among its people: the elves have returned! 

He throws himself through the door of the house he and his children have taken residence in and down the street to the gate. 

Sure enough, the elves of Mirkwood have returned to Dale, nearly a year after the battle which changed everything for the people of Laketown. Bard forces himself to halt as wagon after wagon rolls through the gate and into the courtyard. He can see piles of textiles, barrels, sacks overflowing. 

The antlers of a huge elk fill the gate, and Bard’s heart squeezes in his chest. 

This animal is even larger than Thranduil’s last mount, and the king rides it across the courtyard as though he is coming home to his own kingdom and not merely as a visitor to Dale.

The elf king is scanning the crowd that has gathered. Bard hesitates, but then, because these people have appointed him their leader, he must steps forward.

The weight of Thranduil’s gaze finds and settles on him instantly, and as he looks up into those eyes, Bard knows. The dreams had been figments, yes, but not of Bard’s own mind.

A small, self-satisfied smile tugs at the corner of the elf king’s mouth, but this is hardly the place for familiarity and grand displays. Bard roots his feet to the cobblestones and bites the inside of his cheek to hide his emotion. He waits for Thranduil to descend, which he does gracefully and unaided despite the size of his mount. 

Human and elf alike watch with their breaths held as the elf king approaches the leader and soon to be king of Dale (if the people have their way, despite Bard’s protests). They feel the tension in the air and mistake its meaning. 

For Bard, there is no mistaking the elf king’s intentions. True to his word, he has come to him in the waking world. True to his word, he has brought supplies for Bard’s people. If the elves wonder at their king’s uncharacteristic generosity, they do not let their king know of their confusion.

Bard extends a hand in greeting but the elf king grasps it higher, on his forearm as one warrior to another. Bard feels himself to be no warrior, but he returns the embrace none the less. 

The touch sends a shock through Bard, even though the layers of Thranduil’s glove and Bard’s own sleeve. 

“Unpack the wagons,” Thranduil orders, and his voice rings out across the courtyard, and then his voice softens as he gazes at Bard, “there is much we must discuss if there is to be an allegiance between our people.”

Bard is in a desperate state by the time he leads Thranduil back to his home. He clears his children from the house, sending them out to assist with the wagons, and then bolts the door behind them.

When Bard turns, the elf kings has thrown off his cloak and is pulling off his gloves, finger by finger. He watches Bard steadily, and there is heat in his gaze that makes Bard’s legs feel unsteady. 

“Did you doubt me, Bowman?”

Bard has not the words to answer. Instead, he steps forward, until he is sharing the elf’s personal space, breathing in tandem with him, one hand slowly winding its way through long elven hair. 

Afterwards, they will disagree on just who had kissed who first. Bard cannot remember because the reality of it, the fact that he is awake and that this is no longer just a dream, is overwhelming. 

Later, when they are lying naked and sated in Bard’s bed, a poor specimen next to that of the elf king, Bard finally feels some of his awe at the situation fade. Thranduil is speaking, outlining possibilities for trade agreements, listing probable areas for agriculture around Dale, and advising Bard against an alliance with the newly re-claimed Erebor.

Bard rolls over and kisses him quiet, “I do not have the luxury of immortality. When we are in public, we may speak of such things. When it is just the two of us, let us leave such things behind.”

Thranduil smiles, “this is the beginning of a great alliance between our people, Bowman. And, I believe, between you and I as well.”

Bard can only agree.


End file.
